


A Queen can do as She Likes

by meisie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Awkward Romance, Brooding, F/M, Introspection, Possessive Sex, R plus L equals J, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-26 11:19:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12057912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meisie/pseuds/meisie
Summary: In which overwhelming desire gets in the way of the end of the world. Angsty girl porn with feelings two part fic that follows the show timelines but does it's own thing. Followed by a sequel (click username for more smut).





	1. Dragonstone

_A/N: This is planned as a two part as I don’t do long stories. I am as awkward as hell as I haven’t written anything for fun in years, someone hit me over the head with a thesaurus._

_Comments and kudos most welcome._

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**_Daenerys_ **

 

Sleep eluded her grasp, like the speeding shadow of a cloud over the clifftops. She lay for hours in her bed that gave her no comfort, staring up at the silk canopy, longing for sleep, needing a rest from all the trauma and drama that had dragged her down since her arrival in her cheerless homeland. The churn of her thoughts kept the shadow of sleep always out of reach. No clever plans or crucial strategy formed in the mess of her mind, only grief and regret, fury and gnawing pain. And above all, frustration. The frustration of a thwarted dragon, dangerous and unstable.

All her hopes and desires were denied her, due to the hard truths and the cool courtesy from one man; the one man she could not bend to her will. It was a new experience, the lack of control, and at that moment she loathed him for it; like a spear of ice through her thoughts, followed by a wave of want that rolled through her restless form, making her nipples prick and her thighs press together under the weight of the blankets.

She rolled over to her side and clutched a feather pillow to her chest, thumping it with a fist childishly. Those eyes of his, they would not leave her. Those, dark, depthless doe eyes. Wariness and want, adoration and awe; his eyes told her everything he felt about her, and yet he did nothing. Duty was the death of desire, but her traitorous heart did not want to listen.

Beyond tired of herself, she slipped from the bed, the cool night air burrowing through her nightgown of white cotton, a breeze from the open casement making her shiver violently as she tiptoed past Missandei’s truckle bed to the table. She upended the wine jug over a goblet, finding it empty, and muttered an oath when she realised she would have to venture out into the castle for her choice of oblivion. Shrugging on a thick velvet bedrobe she had found on a hook on the wall, she pushed felt slippers on her cold feet and left the room as quietly as she could. Her unbound hair and robe swirled behind her as she stalked past the guards flanking the doorway, in too much of a mood for a kind word. She felt the curious eyes of the Dothraki on her back as she moved down the hall towards the council chamber, her small form slipping through pools of orange light from the torches like a ghost.

The night was broken by small sounds that dimly registered in her busy brain - the sigh of the wind, the distant roar of the ocean, the shuffling feet and guttural muttering of the guards on duty, and most of all, the cries of her two remaining sons as they swept through the starry night high above the island. A fresh wave of grief rocked her as she banged dramatically through the doors of her ancestor’s war room; grief mixed with anger at herself for risking her children on a foolish gamble, driven not by strategy but the need to save Jon Snow. She had let her desire lead her to recklessness and she had paid the price, and what had she bought? A chancy plan to convince the bitch queen of the south of the real threat to them all, and the devotion of the man who now stood by her side.

He was still more of a boy than the men as she had known in her colourful past, despite bearing the scars of a warrior and years of suffering on his face. A gauche, beautiful boy that stared at her constantly with those eyes full of everything, making her check herself and question herself. Making her weak. A dragon should not be weak, mooning like a girl over a northern fool.

With jerky movements she reached for the jug on the sideboard and poured herself a healthy measure, the last of the Arbor Gold from the cellars, and drank it off quickly, barely tasting its fineness as it hit her throat but enjoying the tendrils of fog which seeped through her roiling thoughts nonetheless. She finished it fast and poured another, then drifted to the large window at the far end of the room. She gazed out at the moonlit ocean, the remains of her proud fleet bobbing in the surging swells from the Narrow Sea, assembled and waiting for tomorrow’s ill-fated journey.

In the chaos and horror beyond the Wall Jon had been her sole focus; she had reached for him desperately and he had turned away, a savage in furs that moved like a dancer, cutting through the dead with an elegant ferocity before crashing through the ice under their weight. She gulped more wine as she thought not of the ruin of her hopes on that terrible day, not of the hideous tension of waiting to see if he still lived, but of the way he moved as he fought, with a confidence and grace that belied the stiff, sullen awkwardness he had showed her when they first met. Not for the first time she wondered what he would be like as a lover, whether he would be clumsy and out of his depth and embarrassed, or whether he would take with all that fury and strength, leaving her a ruin; sobbing and quaking under that compact, hard-muscled body.

Suspecting the latter, she shifted restlessly in her slippers. Her breathing had quickened, her breasts rising and hardening under the warmth of her robe, the wine not helping to cool her ardour. Her free hand drifted idly down her chest, groping her heated flesh under the thin cotton and cupping between her legs. It had been a long time since she had taken a man to her bed. Any normal man would crawl on his knees over broken dragonglass for the chance, but the only man she wanted, the man she was now wet for, would probably never presume to touch anything more than her hand.

She growled and slammed her goblet down on the window ledge, moving to go back to her room to find some discreet relief under the covers, but then the doors to the chamber creaked open. She moved to a patch of shadow, trying to hide and compose her face and thoughts and failing as she watched him enter the room as if she had summoned him, the blood thrumming in her ears and flooding her cheeks as she took him in. His hair was wild and unbound as she had longed to see it, and her fingers itched to bury themselves in those thick, black curls. He walked over to her in bare feet, as silent as a cat, not hidden under layers of fur and boiled leather but in a loose grey shirt and breeches, the contrast of his dark hair and brows and moon pale skin in the half light making her sigh inwardly.

Her eyes drank him in thirstily. She wondered why he was also awake at midnight and in a room with her, all alone, thoroughly enjoying seeing him so unexpectedly exposed. Either she was very lucky or unlucky, she wasn’t sure which. Something in the way he stalked toward her made her retreat until her back met the cool stone of the window frame. His eyes moved over her in turn, black as sable and unreadable.

Face flushing hot, she cleared her throat, hunting for her dignity. ‘I fear you have caught me at a disadvantage, Lord Snow’.

He snorted, mouth quirking in an almost-smile amidst the scruff of his beard. ‘I fear the same…your Grace,’ his voice rough and smooth all at once. She fidgeted with the lapels of her robe, wondering whether she should pull it closed for propriety’s sake, then dismissing the idea. Her eyes were drawn to his lips, so plump and perfect, then she flicked her gaze away, straightening her back.

‘Lord Tyrion paid me a visit this evening and drank me dry,’ he was saying. ‘I have lain awake for hours, my mind all a boil. I see you can’t sleep either’. He turned and moved to the sideboard, pouring himself a goblet and breaking the tension. ‘Are you worried about the parley in King’s Landing?’ he said, turning back, placing his wine on the table, untasted.

‘Not at all,’ she sniffed. ‘I have dealt with worse enemies than Queen Cersei. She is an obstacle in my path, and I will squash her once the war in the north is dealt with.’ Her tone was sharp to match her mood, a line formed between her brows. She did not want to talk strategy, she was so tired of strategy.

‘So, you wander the castle in your nightgown in the dead of night for other reasons.’ He shifted on his feet as it he had an itch, his stance awkward but his eyes wandering over her face and down her throat to where her gown was loosely gaping over her chest. ‘Not very queenly, your Grace.’

She was suddenly annoyed, catching the hint of reproof that contradicted his avid gaze. ‘A queen can do as she likes,’ she said coolly, chin tilting. ‘Despite her oafish advisors always trying to tell her otherwise.’

Jon’s face suddenly grew wary, signalling retreat. She took a step toward him, silently cursing herself, and him, for falling into a squabble. ‘I will leave you to your wine, your Grace,’ he said stiffly, dropping his eyes to the floor and turning away. ‘I appear to have offended.’

‘I haven’t given you leave to go,’ she snapped in desperation, despising herself.

He halted, hands clenching at his sides, his broad shoulders squaring as is fighting to hold himself inward, but when he turned back the light from the window caught his face. She saw a great battle going on there; fear and irritation and worry, and most of all a dark, demanding hunger that made her breath catch in her throat. ‘I must leave,’ he growled. ‘Or else I am going to do something stupid you will probably have me roasted for.’

She smiled slowly, hope welling within her chest, her voice a lure. ‘Do it then. I didn’t take you for a coward.’

He moved so fast, she didn’t notice until he was right up in her face. She was suddenly caged, backed up against the window ledge, her space invaded, her senses reeling as his lips bore down upon hers. She opened her mouth in a moan, her fumbling hands clutching at his back, one sliding up to grab at his hair, the silky locks dragging through her fingers as she pulled him down to her. She bit at his lips as his tongue probed hers, the back of her legs hitting the window ledge as her knees wobbled, and his strong hands fisted in her robe to stop her falling backwards into empty sky.

She pressed herself against him tightly as he took her mouth, bathing in his scent, all musky and smoky and glorious, and rubbed herself up against his hardness like a purring cat, not caring about her precarious position, or the stresses and dangers ahead of them, or what everyone would say. Her mind was blank, toes curled, loins wet and aching with need through he did nothing but kiss her with those beautiful lips of his, like it had been on his mind for weeks.

The muscles of his shoulders flexed under her hands and she found herself lifted in the air, his mouth leaving hers with a strangled gasp and finding the curve of her neck, teeth nipping, beard scratching a path downwards to her breasts. Skin reacted with ripples that shot down her body to her core. She rolled her hips, the thick length under leather breeches hitting the right spot to make her whimper. Her hands went everywhere she could reach, diving under the rough linen of his shirt in search of bare, hard flesh, sliding down to grab his cheeks.

Jon made an anguished noise and spun her away from the window, her body slamming down on the edge of the table and falling backwards under his weight. Goblets and papers and carved sigils went tumbling to the floor in their wake, and she shivered at the abruptness, the aggression, annoyed and terribly aroused. He took a deep breath, dark brown eyes wandering over her like he didn’t know where to begin, but when she reached up to grab at the fastening of his breeches he knocked her hands away, making her growl in frustration as they were pinned to the table, the carved hills and valleys digging into her palms as he bent to kiss her again.

‘If you touch me there I am not going to last beyond seconds,’ he whispered into her parted lips, voice like gravel. And she smiled, opening her mouth for his tongue, content to let him lead.

He let her go then and she lay there passive and quaking as his calloused, rough hands drifted over her skin, pushing the neckline of her nightgown down so her breasts were exposed to the cool air, tight and high under his gaze. When he took a nipple into his warm mouth and then the other, the sight of his intent face made her cry out, muffling the sharp sound with a hand over her face so the castle would not hear. She kept as silent as she could as he drove her higher, nipping and sucking and scratching her rosy peaks, cold hands moving downwards to spread her legs wider whilst pushing the fabric of her gown to her waist, leaving her open to him above and below while he stayed maddeningly clothed and out of reach.

Her free hand went to the cup the back of his neck, the muscles tight and corded with maintaining control, his breath ragged as he freed her breast from his wet lips, spearing her through the heart with a look that was all black, blatant desire barely held in check. Her throat closing up, she broke the tension by arching off the uncomfortable wood in invitation, wanting him to fill her depths and free her of the cramping ache in her womb. She felt him cup her mound instead, a finger drawing a line down her folds and opening them to an invasion that made her flinch away from his gaze to writhe and sob helplessly, now too wound up to care if anyone heard.

The ache grew worse, much worse with his deft fingers pushing up inside her, curling to hit a spot the made her bottom lift with each movement to increase the delicious friction. Worse still, when he suddenly dropped to the floor, his mouth replacing his hand and pulling at her folds greedily, drinking her up, a tongue finding the tiny nub of nerves at the top of her slit, circling and lapping.

She wailed and sat bolt upright from the table, mouth gaping wide as she watched him devour her, his hands holding her spread thighs imprisoned, her wetness coating his lips and chin, the scratch of his face on her sensitive flesh adding to the torture. Bracing her hands on the tabletop she jerked her hips closer to his attentive mouth, her pathetic, pleading nonsense words filling the air as she sought more of what he was giving her, what he was drawing from her as he focused on her pleasure and ignored his own.

Eventually she could take no more, feeling her release building and building like a cresting wave and not wanting it to break. She yanked at his tangled hair, pulling him away from her swollen, throbbing loins to make it stop before she fell apart. She tasted herself on his lips as he moved up to kiss her again, pulling her closer to the edge of the table and fumbling between their bodies for the fastening of his breeches, movements clumsy and urgent, his breathing deep and uneven.

She felt the blunt head of his cock pressed against her, and then he was sheathed inside her in one deft stroke, the thickness stretching her wide as she sobbed and clutched at his back, hanging on for dear life, nails carving circles into his flesh as he began to move, pulling out and then diving in again with a muttered curse. The sensation was so powerful she felt it in every part of her, burning and tingling under her skin, making her blind and deaf to everything except how good it was.

She had never felt so helpless and undone in her life, finding the relentless, bruising thrusting within her nearly unbearable she was so riled, whimpering as he advanced and retreated within her tightness, both flinching away from each movement and pressing her thighs tighter around his hips to drive him deeper.

Her silver hair swayed around them like a veil as he lifted her higher, changing the angle of his thrusts so her most sensitive spot got the friction it needed to send her over the edge into oblivion. She muffled a scream of triumph in the curve of his neck, biting down hard as her inner walls clenched around his cock in long, slow pulses, his hands squeezing and bruising the soft flesh of her bottom as he growled and then sobbed like a child as he came apart inside her, his seed spilling into her womb in a flash of heat that made her curl her body around his like a clinging vine, taking every drop.

He held her as they came back down to earth, grip loosening as he struggled to catch his breath. The wild pulse in her ears quietened down to a low thrum and she lifted her head to face him, an unexpected shyness coming between them as he searched her face carefully, looking for signs of regret though he was still buried inside her.

‘Take me to bed, Jon’, she said quietly. ‘I want to sleep beside you.’ She knew she would sleep now, the deep, dreamless sleep that she had craved, free of loneliness and worry.

A shadow flitted across his face, and she winced as he disengaged from her warmth. Gently he straightened her clothes, smoothing the gown down her legs and drawing it over her breasts, and then straightened his own. When he stepped back, she felt suddenly cold again, shivering in the night breeze.

‘You know that I can’t do that, much as I want to,’ he said huskily, reaching out to tuck her hair away from her face. ‘Everyone in the castle would know by the morning, and we don’t need the distraction.’ His lovely eyes were sad, mouth downturned.

‘A queen can do what she likes,’ she said stubbornly, knowing that it wasn’t true.

He offered a hand to help her to her feet, and she took it, not letting go as she stood up unsteadily, feeling pleasant aches and pains in her tired body. Her hair was a mess, slippers gone, her lips and cheeks scraped raw from his kisses, and his scent was all over her and in her. The Gods only knew what her guards would think as she slunk past them back to her room, alone.

She looked and felt well used, but he lifted her hands to his lips, bending to kiss them reverently. The way he looked at her made her smile sadly, seeing the conflict there, the endless war between desire and duty. She straightened her shoulders and steeled herself to be wise.

‘I wish she could,’ he whispered. ‘I wish we could tell everyone to go to one of the seven hells and face them, together.’ His lips curled into a small smile. ‘But not today.’


	2. Winterfell

_A/N: There is a point of view change for this chapter. Thank you for reading, it was a fun, absorbing, highly distracting ride pulling this together._

_Erm, this is quite intense, which is how I roll with writing smut. I think it works better than the first chapter, but hopefully they merge together. Comments bring good fangirl karma and encourage more writing._

**_Jon_ **

 

The only place left to find a moment’s peace in Winterfell was the Godswood. It was the calm centre where there was no one pulling him this way and that, leaning on him, relying on him to bring everyone through the storm. A thousand pairs of fearful, judging, needy eyes; ever watching.

He couldn’t afford to let any of them see what was going on under the surface. The worry, the terror, the jarring confusion, and most of all, the bitter regret. So, he ran away from his burdens, like the father who wasn’t his father, to sit beneath the heart tree and brood. Lord Tyrion had said he was especially good at brooding, but the memory of his friend’s sardonic words couldn’t bring a smile to his lips as he sat in the falling snow, staring into the black pool of water blankly.

The pool never froze over, he recalled, no matter how cold, the hot springs under the ground keeping the snow thin and the air comparatively warm to the icy wasteland outside the castle walls. For that reason, the dragons had chosen it as their home. He could hear Rhaegal shifting and grumbling in a far corner under the soldier pines. Drogon, more restless than his smaller brother, was out patrolling the borders. The dragons scared most castlefolk away, he knew he would not be interrupted, so he let his dark thoughts have full reign, huddling under his furs, the cold night air as sharp as a knife on his furrowed brow, the snowflakes settling in his hair and beard as he sat, as still as a statue in the crypts.

Every inch of the castle was full, including the half-ruined towers, every piece of ground packed with tents and horses. The Winter Town as well; the brothels doing a roaring trade from the bizarre alliance of armies encamped in and around the walls. So far, the deep snows had held off, but food was running short, the northern houses unable to support such a large army with their surplus. As glad as he was to have them, they were eating through the stores like locusts.

Lord Varys had been dispatched to Pentos with several ships to buy food and gain any help they could get from the Free Cities, which spared him the spymaster’s supercilious looks, but he still had to suffer the looks of everyone else from the queen’s inner circle. Tyrion’s look of relief, Missandei’s cold, accusatory glances, the Unsullied Commander Grey Worm glaring like he wanted to run him through with a spear, and Ser Jorah’s renewed hopefulness.

Although Daenerys showed nothing of her thoughts, remaining cool and business-like when they were together, the expressions of her friends told him otherwise. He had spurned her, trampled into the frozen dirt what had been growing between them, and lashed out like a trapped animal when he had arrived home to receive the double blow of shattering news, and it had wounded her. She was too much of a queen to let him see it, but he knew. The same pain was killing him slowly as well; an agony worse than anything he had endured, even his betrayal and death, and this time there was no escape into nothing.

He winced and shifted in his seat as he heard a burst of drunken laughter from the castle courtyard, the carefree Lannister solders making him envious. He wondered when was the last time that he had laughed. The arrival of Ser Jaime and five thousand Lannister soldiers he had commandeered from the Riverlands had been the only bright spot in a grey week of misery and mounting terror, showing that their trip to King’s Landing and the price they had paid to get there wasn’t entirely wasted. Bran had known of course, so it wasn’t a surprise. Bran knew everything, it was both a blessing and a curse. His brother was a fine weapon to have in the war against the dead, but he resented him all the same. A crisis of identity and a broken heart were weaknesses he could ill afford.

His arse was numb, and the cold was sinking into his bones. He got to his feet and wandered beneath the blue-black shadows under the trees, drawn to the warmth of the slumbering dragon in the far corner; a reminder of all that he had gained, and lost. What fear he had of the beasts was now gone, although he had denied it he knew in his soul that the agonising truth was the truth. The dragons were his family; the big, fierce black one, the friendly green one, the lost one, and their mother. She had told him that she didn’t care, that it didn’t matter, that she loved him and wanted him just the same, but everything he had learned over his eventful life had told him it was wrong. So, he had turned away, too afraid of what people would say if they knew, and loathing the implications.

He sat down heavily in the melting snow next to Rhaegal, leaning into the scaly warmth and stroking his snout, avoiding the dagger-like teeth carefully. The dragon grumbled and opened one yellow-green eye lazily, then shut it again, settling on its haunches so he could sit more comfortably next to that marvellous heat, better than a brazier for thawing him out. Gods knew what people would think if they could see him at this moment, if they were brave enough to get close.

If it wasn’t for those people he would snatch Daenerys and fly away, toss aside duty and honour and find a quiet corner of the wide world to live in peace while it all went to hell around them. The gnawing emptiness in his chest, the cold comfort of doing what was right, was no match for the fierce want that that burned in his mind. He turned over memories with no feeling of shame, growing warmer still as he sat in the dark with only the dragon as a witness. The pleasure and the pain of those nights when he had damned the consequences and dared to take her; smashed through walls of reserve to find the queen was only a woman after all, sweet and yielding and soft, and so eager for his clumsy touch it made him instantly aroused to think of it.

He remembered the taste of her in his mouth, like liquid honey, the sounds she made as he devoured her, the way she arched her back and sprawled across the bed in total abandonment as he sunk into her tight depths. Those wide blue eyes, looking into his soul and loving what she found there, the same eyes that now looked through him like he was a pane of dirty glass.

He admired her toughness, her steely resolve to not show anything of the pain at his rejection, even though it hurt him more than he could say. He had long experience of denying himself the urges of normal men, but now he could not muster any willpower to deny what was in his heart. The world was growing darker and crueller, death was certain for many if not all of them. He could find the will to fight and protect and keep going until he went down for the second time, but only with her by his side would it have any meaning.

His eyelids drooped and he dozed, his mind full of her, the silky feel of her soft skin under his hands, the sound of her whispers and moans in the darkness of a bed, a tent, a private corner, the stroke of her unbound hair in his hands. He burned and grieved, hard and wanting, a dangerous edge to his thoughts as his lust fought against finer feelings. He wanted to stalk her through the castle and take her unawares, get down on his knees and beg her for forgiveness before taking her down in the rushes and ravaging her, one last chance to lose himself in her embrace, bite her, mark her, fuck her and weep into her breast before she had him executed for his effrontery, or forgave him. He didn’t care which, as long as she saw him again.

Disgusted with himself anew, he cursed and got up, blinking away his stupor and trudging across the silent woods to the gate, leaving his friend to sleep on. He entered the courtyard and weaved through the lines of tents, hearing snores and murmurings and the giggles of hardy whores, but seeing no people, and slipped into the great hall, hoping to find a servant to bring him some mulled wine. As he entered the hall he halted at the sound of a fine voice in song, the rumble of drunk male voices, and a woman’s laughter: Daenerys. He was torn between a smile at the lovely sound, and a scowl of resentment.

Not wanting to be seen, he lingered in the flickering shadows behind a pillar, taking in the scene. Her tiny figure was seated at the top table, swathed in black furs against the draughts, and she was surrounded by men, not her usual advisers but a strange melange of Northmen, Lannisters and Dothraki, all well in their cups. He knew she had spent all her adult life surrounded by tough, hard men and knew how to handle them, but he resented the scene all the same.

The Kingslayer was smirking at her charmingly, and his craggy sellsword friend Ser Bronn was half way through singing “The Dornishman’s Wife” to her, his voice sweet enough to keep that dazzling smile on her face. Others were arguing in a mix of tongues, or face-down on the board asleep, or playing games of dice and knives. She looked entirely at home up there.

_As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,_

_and the taste of his blood on his tongue…_

He tried to turn and leave, but instead found himself drawing closer, unnoticed by the drunks, eavesdropping like the spymaster, the acid of foolish jealousy in his throat. Ser Bronn finished his tune to applause, and the final words echoed in his ears.

_But what does it matter, for all men must die…_

He watched her, intent as a wolf after prey, wanting to run both men through – one tarnished and weary, but still as handsome as the knights from the old stories, the other no prize but boasting enough swagger for the both of them.

‘You have a fine voice, Ser Bronn,’ she said lightly, taking a sip of wine from her glass. ‘Pity there are no obliging Dornish women around for you to seduce.’

The sellsword snorted and sprawled back in his chair. ‘Aye. No women at all, except two chilly Stark girls, Brienne of fucking Tarth and the Dragon Queen.’ He leered at her, his hard eyes flashing. ‘Should of thought of that when I followed Ser Goldenballs up here on his noble quest.’

‘He doesn’t want to admit he’s actually here to be a hero,’ Ser Jaime drawled. ‘And there are plenty of women. Dothraki women.’

‘I’m too afraid of those mad fuckers to try it on,’ Bronn said. ‘It’s safer to take my chances with the Dragon Queen.’

Daenerys giggled like a girl. ‘You hope to lure me with bawdy songs that’s aren’t fit for a lady’s ears?’

‘Well, is it working?’ the sellsword said boldly.

She shook her head, her neat silver braids glinting in the candlelight, and took another gulp of wine. He realised she was quite tipsy, and there was something sad and brittle about her smile, despite her amusement. His heart ached for her.

‘Enough drink and anyone starts to look appealing,’ she dryly observed, and both men laughed, looking at her with frank appreciation.

Suddenly, he had had enough. He stepped out of the dark, heading straight for the table, ignoring startled looks as he approached her. She looked up, eyes filming over with ice. His blood started to beat in his ears, knowing that he was being very stupid, knowing there would be talk, trying to keep his face bland, his voice low.

‘Your Grace, a word if you please.’

A spark of anger flared in her blue irises. ‘The hour is late. Too late for talk. I am weary’, she said coolly, her cheeks flushing. Both of her companions were staring openly at them, catching the undercurrents, the unsaid words.

‘Now, your Grace,’ he growled, not giving a damn, reaching out and grasping her arm, entirely focused on getting her out of the hall and somewhere private so he could…he was going out of his mind.

She rose to her feet in silence, her eyes spitting fire. He braced himself for a torrent of anger, but she moved to follow him out, sweeping regally past the drunken, gaping men, her arm trembling under his iron grip, fur cloak trailing in their wake.

Once they reached the hallway where there was no one in sight, she wheeled around and slapped him hard across the face, the painful crack mingling with her gasping sob. His tenuous control broke in two. He growled low in his throat and pushed her against the wall, capturing both hands and pinning them beneath their furs. She struggled wildly, trying to buck him off. He tasted her tears on his tongue as he bent to kiss her face, her ears, her mouth, growing instantly erect at the feel of her small, soft body fighting his, fighting and yielding. Another furious sob vibrated against his hungry mouth, and she bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said brokenly. ‘I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please.’

She did not reply. Instead she speared him with a glance, her eyes near dilated to blackness, breasts heaving under her gown, and tilted her head back against the stone wall in invitation. His mouth found the smooth skin of her neck, and he sucked and bit at her in turn, leaving vivid red marks, the scent of her hair like summer fields after rain, the heat she was throwing off warming him down to his toes. His cock twitched, trapped uncomfortably beneath layers of heavy clothes, and throbbed when she began to roll her hips against his weight, sobs turning to urgent moans as he mauled her. He had to be in her, now.

He freed her hands to yank at her gown, sliding it up her legs, when sanity returned at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Instantly he stepped back, and she straightened, wrapping her cloak around her and drawing up the hood over her telltale hair. He took her arm and walked in the opposite direction, grip firm and steps hurried in case she balked, dragging her up a back staircase and down several hallways until they arrived at his chamber. It was unguarded, so they slipped in unseen.

He bolted the door shut with one hand, not letting her go until she was locked in with him. Freed, she paced the room, throwing off her furs when she reached the fireplace, the gentle curves of her body framed by the flames. Finally, she turned to face him.

‘I should order you out, to sleep out in the snow.’

‘You’re not going to, though,’ he said confidently, stalking towards her, the brief interruption doing nothing to damp down the urge to tear off her layers and take her, hard.

Her blue eyes flared as he approached, frosty demeanour melting away, and he bent his head boldly to kiss the tops of her breasts above the neck of her gown. A hand grasped his hair, her fingers running through the damp curls and loosening it from its tie, his fingers plucking at the metal hooks down the length of her spine. The gown slipped from her shoulders to puddle on the floor, the linen undershift tearing as he wrenched at the neckline to expose her small, perfect breasts.

His mouth suckled each nipple, desperate and starving, hands grasping the curve of her waist to pull closer against the chilly layers of leather and wool and fur encasing his body. She made an angry sound low in her chest and grabbed at buckles and fastenings and knots, pulling at his clothes in frustration, done with playing the frozen goddess. Cloak, swordbelt, gambeson, boots and leather armour went thumping to the floor. She tore at his shirt and breeches, cursing his clothes under her breath, making him smile, the flash of his teeth causing her face to soften, her wide mouth curling as she stepped back out of reach.

Clad only in her boots, she sat down on the edge of the bed, her eyes fixed on his as she pulled them off, soft thighs opening briefly so he glimpsed the silver curls and rose pink folds. He suddenly couldn’t breathe, a bolt of painful lust making him gasp for air as he watched her slide up the bed, hand moving absently to his cock, palming its stiff length as she turned and rose up on her knees and spread her legs, her cunt exposed and glistening with wetness, her face hidden in the pillows.

He lunged forward, grasping her buttocks and spreading them further apart with rough hands, and put his mouth on her, tongue pushing up inside where he was dying to go, the sweet taste of her arousal filling his mouth as he lapped and sucked and pulled at her flesh, hands pinning her down as she wriggled and bucked and squirmed, her cries urgent and needy.

The heat and the taste of her was overwhelming, her submission filling his head with darkness, the urge to mount her and split her apart making his cock so painfully hard it felt like it was trapped in a vise. Her back arched, arse lifting in search of more friction from his probing tongue, her flesh pulsing as she grew closer to the edge, and he broke free, sliding a palm up her back to twine her hair in his fist.

He went in fast and deep, flattening her against the covers with a single thrust, her slick walls parting and then tightening around him, burning and squeezing. She made a savage noise, caught between pleasure and pain as he fucked her, her face contorted when she turned her head to look up at him, hand clawing the pillows as she braced herself for each vicious movement. Selfish and greedy and mindless, lost in the depths of her yielding centre, he grunted and heaved as hot waves of sensation took him over, driving him hard to the edge of oblivion, an escape from all that was dragging them down. It was just her and him, locked together fast, the rest of the cold world shut out.

She rippled around him, her cunt clenching and releasing as she screamed his name hoarsely, pushing up off her hands and into his arms as she climaxed. He gripped her tight, hips slapping violently as he chased her into release, biting down on her throat as his cock jerked and spilled against her womb, heart thundering, sweat beading his brow as the climax brought him crashing down, loosening all the knots in his body and making him collapse, crushing her beneath his weight.

He lay there as if paralysed as she wriggled out from underneath to lie beside him, tucked into his side as she caught her breath. His dark brown eyes were open, starting into her wide blue depths, watching the shifting emotions there, annoyance and amazement and a smug satisfaction that pleased him.

‘This doesn’t solve anything, you know,’ she finally said, breaking the thick silence. The flow of her feelings changed, her face settling into sad lines as reality returned. He rolled over heavily on his side, reaching to cup her flushed cheek.

‘There isn’t anything to solve,’ he said, the relief of letting go of his worries and scruples making him instantly light as air, bringing a smile to his lips. Her face softened, her happiness making her glow like the sun.

‘If you’re going to do all that to your queen, you better say it, Jon Snow,’ she demanded.

His smile teased her. ‘I don’t need to say it, you already know it.’ She growled at him, tossing her head, and he gave in instantly.

‘I love you,’ he said, quietly. ‘I don’t care about any of it, or any of them. Not my family, or your council, or our armies, or the bloody realm.’ She sat up and stared at him, her piercing gaze caught between relief and worry. ‘We could all be dead soon, our chances aren’t good. I want you by my side, nothing else matters.’

‘The realm is yours by right,’ she said haltingly, bringing the unspoken out in the open. He shook his head in denial and took her arm, bringing her back down to hold her close, whispering into her ear, his words emphatic and final.

‘If we live through this, I will help you win it, but I don’t want it. I don’t give a damn about it, only you.’

Her lips curled, the happiness returning in a flash, her eyes sparkling and making him weak with relief and love. ‘I love you too,’ she said simply, and drew his head down to her breast. He drifted into sleep, his contentment wrapping him in warmth and peace, if only for a moment.

The End


End file.
